Bad Blood
by TheCatalystx
Summary: Shelbie Wayland never meant for anything to change that night. She just wanted to escape, but what she witnessed would change everything she thought she knew. After that night, nothing would be the same.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf, or any characters belonging to it. I only own my OCs**

* * *

"What do you mean 'the money just isn't there'?" Her mother snarled, her voice seeping through the thin, plastic sheets. Shelbie winced, closing her eyes and standing up from the couch in the 'family room.' The family room is really just a converted office, sporting a flimsy plastic sheet that acted as a makeshift wall and separated it from the kitchen and dining room. It was meant to be temporary; her mother decided to remodel the house, but the contractor robbed them blind and they hadn't seen hide or tail of him since.

So now they have a half-finished refurbished kitchen, a crumbling dining room that they never use because of the dust and chill, and a plastic curtain that was never meant to be there and has been hanging up for the past ten months.

"Stephen, this is our daughter we're talking about here." Her mother's voice was shaking with fury. Shelbie was so sick of hearing the same argument night after night, and to be honest, her body was going numb with chill. The space heater they used required an electrical outlet, and the nearest electrical outlet that isn't being used is in the kitchen – where her mother is currently screeching into the phone at her father. The idea of going to warm her stiff fingers doesn't exactly gleam with appeal.

"No, as a matter of fact, I _don't _think you understand. If you understood, we wouldn't be having the same argument – why aren't you getting this!? Shelbie needs to go to college. I don't have enough money. You have partial custody, you have enough unpaid child-support to fund a third world country for a year, and you're living in a goddamn mansion in a cookie cutter neighborhood! Don't you tell me that 'there's just no money –'" Her mother's rant was cut to an abrupt end.

Shelbie crossed the family room and smacked the plastic wall aside. On any other night, she might pause to comment on how annoying the thing was, but right now it was the last thing on her mind. Right now, she needed _out _of this house.

She strode through the cold, unfinished floors of the dining room and passed her mom. Her mom perked up and pressed a hand to the receiver. '_What are you doing?_' she mouthed, and Shelbie waved her off. "Shelbie," Her mom demanded when Shelbie didn't turn around or really acknowledge her mother at all.

She kept walking and swung the front door open, more cold air smacking her in the face. She bit her lip and asked what Daryl Dixon would do, and slammed the door shut.

She stood on the porch for a second to let the cool, fresh air permeate her lungs and tickle her skin. It was warmer outside than in her house. The moonlight was especially bright tonight, illuminating everything with a magnificent incandescent glow.

Her mother's father, the only grandfather she knew, would comment that it was full; a night of rebirth and power. Well, she didn't feel very powerful. Her parents had been divorced for years. Her father remarried and decided to move back to his hometown – Beacon Hills. As a big-shot lawyer, he lived in the best neighborhood, recreated the most successful firm in town, and snagged an Apple Pie Trophy Wife. The Waylands had a history in Beacon Hills: a long line of lawyers, businessmen, and before that – blacksmiths.

The term 'recreated' was used because the Waylands used to have a law firm in Beacon Hills. Her father went through his rebellious 20s (during the glorious 80s – apparently, lots of rock music and hair spray was involved) and decided to travel the country with a band. The name of the band was so ridiculous it's not even worth mentioning – and her father played the guitar. It's just about the only thing they have in common, but that's off topic.

The point is that while her father was off kickin' it with the mallrats-disguised-bad-to-the-bone, his father abruptly died. As the sole heir, he did the unfathomable: sold the firm. Years later, he strolled back to Beacon Hills – law degree in hand – and bippity boppity boop, Wayland & Whittemore was rekindled through connections and the deep veins of ancestral history and legacy. And money. Lots of money.

But you know what they say: with great power comes great façade maintenance, and apparently forking over enough money to pay off a small yacht in order to send an estranged daughter to college casts an ominous shadow on the manicured lawn of the Apple Pie life he's created.

She knows the story. It's been told a thousand times, and she's sick of hearing it.

So to save herself the pain of hearing the same arguments over and over for the seventh consecutive night in a row, she left. She walked through her familiar backyard – they had moved into this house years ago, long before they decided to renovate it, and this backyard was one of the best parts of the house. The path behind the backyard, which led into the woods, was one of the only parts of the house that had remained untouched. Untouched, and unchanged by time.

_Seriously, it's like someone took a photograph of the woods behind this house when we moved in and said: _Yes. Yes, this is it. This is how it shall stay, Mother-Nature be damned_._

…Looking back, perhaps that fleeting thought was enough to taunt the universe. That night, Shelbie's life would be changed forever. After this final trip down the unchangeable, steadfast trail behind her house, it would never look the same.

* * *

Forty minutes later, Shelbie was deep into the woods. The trees had become clenched together and tight-knight. If she were to stick her arms straight out and spin, she'd have bruised wrists because they'd knock into every tree in a five-foot-radius.

She finally reached her destination: the treehouse that she found years ago with her grandfather. Old and long-forgotten, by all logic it should probably be rotted and dangerous. But like the trails that led her here, the wooden structure remained unchanged. The paint on the nails was chipped in all the same places, no more or less than the first time she had seen the fortress.

She slid her foot onto the first rung of the ladder, scaling the giant Oak Tree and resting her hand against the trap door at the top. She ran her hand across the faded, weathered white paint that looked more yellow than white. Or rather, she ran her hand along the hand prints there.

There were two things that marked this treehouse as ever being owned by anyone. First, there were the initials that had been carved into a wall in the treehouse. And secondly, a set of hand prints marked the trap door.

_The day was bright, sunlight filtering through the trees. A small girl was balancing on the rung of a ladder next to her grandfather. He was on the very edge of the rung, giving the girl as much room as possible to ensure that she wouldn't plummet down to the earth below._

_He held up the plastic plate for her. On the plate were two pools of paint, one a grey shimmering color, the other a dark black. _

_"What do I do?" the little girl prompted, peering down curiously at the paint. _

_"Put your hand into the paint, like this." The old man instructed. He leaned against the tree and let go of the rung, balancing on the rung with only his feet as if he had done it a million times before._

_His hand spread around the black paint as he liberally coated it with the substance, careful to not contaminate the sparkling lighter pigment pooled next to it. Once his hand was covered, he nodded for her to do the same._

_The girl bit her lip in concentration as she did the same. But no matter how carefully she mimicked her grandfather's actions, just as she was doing her pinky, she accidentally dipped the edge of her hand into the black._

_Her head snapped up and she looked at her grandfather with a startled expression. "Uh oh," she murmured. "I ruined it!"_

_Her grandfather smiled wisely. "No you didn't!" He insisted, and dipped the edge of his own hand into the sparking grey paint. "You see? We'll match now."_

_She beamed at him and together they placed their hands against the white wood of the door. Her hand was laughably small in comparison to his, and the sight was reflected on the white wood. A smile so big, it seemed to occupy her whole face split her lips. _

_She looked at her grandfather. "They're perfect! Now everyone will knows it's ours."_

_Her grandfather grinned. "Shelbie, my dear. We didn't do this to mark our territory. We did it to start a legacy," He thoughtfully observed the two handprints – a large one that was so black, it would look like someone burned it into the wood were it not for the edge that faded to a shimmering grey. And next to it, a child's hand, the color of the sky just before the sun rose that was tainted on the edge with black. It gave the impression of a night sky slowly brightening, the horizon lit up and the top of the sky marred with the black of a heavy rain cloud. "The family tree." He murmured. _

Shelbie ran her fingers over the black hand print, her throat swelling with a staggering wave of nostalgia. She caressed the edge of grey shimmer, a sad smile marring her face. "The Family Tree," She whispered in a watery breath.

She lifted the rusted skeleton key that hung from a chain around her neck, sliding it into the dilapidated lock. Flecks of rust rained down onto her face, and a shrill noise emitted from the metal in protest to the tumbler being turned for the first time in weeks. She winced and clenched her teeth against the chills that raced up her spine; the noise was like nails on a chalk board, the secret code that was always whispered for entrance to the treehouse. Letting the key fall from her fingers, her hand gripped the rusted handle and she shoved up with a practiced force. She used to not be able to lift it; it was too heavy, but her grandfather solved that for the longest time by arranging the door to stay permanently open.

This, however, meant that the treehouse was exposed to the elements and animals of the forest. By the time she had reached her preteen years, she was strong enough to open the door herself. She left the door open out of habit rather than necessity, but all it took was one encounter with a rabid – and shockingly territorial – family of owls, and she closed the door for good.

She lifted herself into the tree house and rolled onto the wooden floors. Dust danced around the room, lit up by the moonlight. She swung the trap door closed and didn't bother to lock it.

A sigh of relief left her body, and it was like the dam opened. Tension bled out of her and down onto the floor. It seeped through the cracks of the wood, spilling into the forest floor beneath her. She closed her eyes and felt tears pricking the back of her eyelids.

She breathed in the soothing smell of her sanctuary. The unique smell of woods; crisp, dead leaves mingling with what can only be described as _wild_ and uncaged. Freedom. And that was only what was outside of the treehouse.

Inside, she could smell the worn pages of the many books that were scattered. Some of them from her childhood, some of them from more recent years. She strode across the creaking floor, knowing that many would be afraid it was going to cave, but also knowing it would have already done so years ago if it was going to.

Some would probably call her reckless and naïve for thinking that, but it was like she just _knew _the treehouse was stable. As if it was a part of her body, and she could _feel _that although it was old, it was strong.

She reached the bookshelf and bypassed all of the novels, instead reaching for a picture of her and her grandfather. They were on a boat in the middle of a lake. She was wearing his fisherman's hat, and sitting in his lap. They both looked inexplicably content. She missed him; he was her home.

When he had died, she felt abandoned in the worst way. It hit her pretty hard, and it irrevocably changed her. She was no longer carefree. One of the few encounters she's had with her aunt was when she came to tell her that he had passed. Her mother was inconsolable, and therefore could not be the one to break the news.

Her aunt was pretty much a stranger to Shelbie. To be honest, she can hardly remember what was said when she was told that he… that he died. She couldn't remember anything past "He's gone."

After he was gone, she folded into herself. He was her best friend, her role model, her protector. And now he was gone? It took her months to fully grasp what that meant, and when she did, it was too late. She had changed forever. She hasn't been a child since the day she scattered a third of his ashes at the Family Tree.

It was nights like tonight that she wished he was here to tell her what to do – to guide her through these puzzling times. What does she need to say to her mother to make her understand? She doesn't have to go to college straight out of high school. She can wait a few years; earn her own money to pay for it. She can earn a license in something else somehow – it doesn't have to be this way. They've never been given a red cent from her father before, and they did just fine without him. Why should it be any different now? Why do they need his charity?

Especially since her mother just lost her job. She was laid off from the highest paying jobs she'd had, and was between jobs at the moment. But Shelbie knew her mother was searching hard for another job, she knew she wouldn't give up. She knew that the fact that her mother was between jobs was _exactly _the reason why she chose _now _to crawl to Shelbie's father to beg for him to chip in.

Shelbie picked up the book that she always read with her grandfather – _The Misadventures of Ollie the Otter_ – and held it close to her chest. Crossing the room, she plopped down at the window seat and forced the glass to open. The window faced the moon, and she leaned against the wall of the window seat and stared out at the sky.

If a full moon meant rebirth, consider her ready to start over.

It was the rattling of the glass window that stirred her from her sleep. She blinked to see through her grogginess, frowning at the trembling glass. The books were dancing on the shelves behind her. The shaking increased, and a few books actually clattered to the wooden floor.

She wondered if this was an earthquake. They're in California; it's not an unlikely scenario. Actually, this place in the woods marks the halfway point between Beacon Hills and her own hometown. Forty minutes in the other direction, her father was sitting at home with his other family.

She leaned against the window frame, looking down to the ground at the leaves that were shaking below. She wondered if her father was scrambling to find his wife. Shelbie wondered if he was closing his arms around her to take the hit should something fall on them in the earthquake, not even stopping to consider her own safety up in the tree house.

Then she heard something… it sounded like… like a herd? Yes, it sounded like what a herd of buffalo sounds like in the movies. But no, that can't be right. There are no buffalo here. Do herds of wild buffalo even exist anymore?

Then she saw it. There was a herd, alright – a herd of _deer._ Her jaw dropped to the forest floor as she watched the sea of deer sprint past, dodging roots and rocks as they went.

Then she heard something else… a startled cry. Her eyes flickered through the sea of deer, and she saw something drop to the ground. A lone figure was tumbling down the hill towards the tree house. It was going the opposite way of the deer – and Shelbie couldn't help but compare this to the scene in _The Lion King_ when Mufasa fell into the herd of buffalo below him.

She gasped as the figure rolled to a stop right in the middle of the mass of deer, but the deer merely hopped over him like he was another root.

As abruptly as it started, it was over, and the herd had past.

She open and closed her mouth, her mind racing as she wondered what to do.

Does she call out to the figure?

What the hell just happened?

A stampede of _deer _just flew past her tree house!

Should she see if he's okay?

She just saw a _stampede_!

Of _deer_!

She just saw a stampede of deer… they had been running… from what? Why were they running? Why do deer run? Well, they frolic… but that wasn't frolicking. That was sprinting away from something, and deer sprint away when they're afraid… afraid of _what_?

Should she go check on him? He's not… Is he dead?

Just as she was about to say something, he sat slowly sat up. He gaped at where the stampede had disappeared to, and she could see that he was panicking. From her vantage point, the moon cast a clear light on him. He slowly lifted himself from the ground and she could see that he was wearing a red hoodie, and had dark shaggy hair.

He was also breathing really hard, as if he had been sprinting _with _the deer and not tumbling through them like a rampant bowling ball. His head darted around and he scrambled across the forest floor, batting away leaves as he frantically searched for something on the ground.

She frowned and opened her mouth. "H – Hey –" She started, but it came out as a whisper, and before she could say it louder, she saw him freeze.

She wondered if he had somehow heard her, but then he stiffened up and looked over his shoulder in the other direction.

Shelbie squinted through the darkness behind him, where a particularly thick set of trees blocked the moonlight and made it difficult to see much of anything. But then she saw them…

The glowing red eyes. She saw them staring at him from the darkness there, watching him as he flipped over to face it and scrambled away on his back like a crab.

He kicked backwards and started to mutter something wildly, leaves and dirt sailing up from his feet. The eyes moved closer to him. She watched as it emerged from the shadows, and fell back on her butt when she saw a Wolf on Steroids creep closer to the boy on the ground.

He let out a strangled scream as it blurred past him, and she cried out, "Hey!" In panic.

The animal was startled, hesitating after it pounced on him. It growled out and all she could see was a disfigured tangle of limbs as it attacked the boy, and all she could hear were his desperate screams.

"Stop! Hey!" She cried, leaning out the window and throwing her book down at the pair.

It hit the animal straight on the back of the head, and the animal froze. It backed off of the boy and backed up, and she nearly sagged in relief as it extracted itself from him. But then the creature turned towards the tree house… it lifted its glowing red eyes and looked directly up at her.

Her breath caught in her throat. Time stood still as the two creatures of the woods, one a girl and the other a true creature of the night, locked eyes and stared each other down. She wouldn't lie. She was terrified. But the thing merely blinked and sprinted in the other direction, abandoning the boy and leaving before she had the chance to do anything but gawk.

She stayed still for a few more beats of silence, staring in the direction it had run off. The boy groaned and snapped her from her reverie. She looked back at him as he stirred on the ground, and she called out. "Hey!" She said, and he froze again. "Wait! Stay there! Don't move!"

She scrambled to the trap door and flung it open with trembling hands, glad she hadn't locked it. She flew down the tree so fast that she slid off the last four rungs and crashed to the ground. Pain shot through her tailbone, but she ignored it and shoved herself off the forest floor.

Her feet slid around slightly as she anxiously hurried over to him, kicking leaves and dirt up behind her. She slid to a stop next to him like she was sliding into home base during a softball game, thudding on the ground again and placing her shaking hands on his shoulders.

"H-Hey! Stop! Are you alright? Where did it get you? Did it get you? Are you hurt?" She fired out the questions without a pause between them, running her hands down his arms without thought. She forced him to sit up and scanned down his figure.

He let out a small cry, not quite a scream, but obviously an exclamation of surprise. "W-What are – who are you!? Let go of me!" He yelled, thrashing away from her. His breaths were coming out jagged and he was wheezing.

She put her hands up as if to say _I mean no harm_. "Dude, stop! You were just attacked! You need help!"

"I – I…" He stuttered, trying to stand and falling down immediately. A strangled cry of pain bubbled past his lips and his hands flew to his side.

"You're hurt!" She exclaimed, and lunged forward. He flinched away from her and she froze. "My name is Shelbie." She finally told him, noting that he was shaking like a leaf in the wind. He blinked at her rapidly, still scared out of his wits and wheezing. "I saw that – that _thing… _it attacked you! And you're hurt. Let me help you!"

He swallowed roughly and peered at her through the darkness. He was facing away from the moon now, but since she was facing him, he could probably see her just fine since the moonlight was undoubtedly providing plenty of light for him to see.

"I – What?" He said dumbly, still clutching his side.

She slowly and deliberately reached out, making sure that he knew she was doing so and wasn't going to hurt him. Carefully, so as to not jostle him, she placed a gentle hand on one of his arms.

His limbs were thin and wiry. He wasn't malnourished by any stretch of the imagination, but he wasn't bulging with muscles, either. She presumed that he was probably younger than her 18 years, and that only strengthened her resolve to help him.

"Is it your side?" She kept her voice low and soothing, much like talking with a scared animal or a frightened child.

He blinked at her and looked down at himself. His hands were still clutching the side of his torso, and he jerkily nodded a yes.

"You can come with me; that's my treehouse behind us. If you wait at the bottom of it, I have a first aid kit inside. That will have to do until we get you to a hosp –"

"No!" He suddenly shouted, and she jumped in surprise. "I – I mean, I don't… Think I need a hospital."

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Why don't you let me decide that?"

His jaw clenched. "No. I can't go to a hospital."

Shelbie frowned. "Why not?"

"I just can't."

"You may not have a choice," She argued, and he started to shakily stand. He grunted in pain and she scrambled to her feet. She reached out to steady him. "Alright, alright! No hospital… For tonight." _Maybe. Unless you pass out. _"Just – just let me help you."

He watched her for a few seconds before swaying on his feet. "Wh – uhhh…" He nodded, his face looking as pale as a ghost.

She guided him over to the treehouse and helped him lean against the oak tree. Once she was satisfied that he wouldn't collapse, she scaled the ladder and flung herself back into the treehouse.

Her grandfather had been many things, and paranoid was one of them. As such, she was very well prepared for the usual injuries one acquires out here in the woods. A nasty scrape, poison ivy, bug bites… but a bite from a wild animal? Well, for such an injury, her grandfather had put a cheap cellphone and a ham radio.

Unfortunately, she had taken the radio for her Broadcasting class during her sophomore year of high school. That left the cheap cellphone. And man was it cheap – like, early 2000s cheap.

She was grateful for her grandfather's hindsight, because in her haste to escape her house, she had left her cellphone at home.

She grabbed the pitiful, chunky cellphone and pressed the power button. She stood there for a minute, holding that damn power button, but nothing happened. Loudly cursing, she threw the useless hunk of technology at the wall of the treehouse. It clattered to the floor and she fisted a hand into her tangled black hair.

She let out a shaking breath and turned back to the bookshelf. Kicking aside stray books and knocking over others on the shelf, she swept her arm across to clear the area. Finally, a white plastic box peeked out at her.

Extracting the first aid kit, she swiped the flashlight and map from the compartment underneath the window seat and flew back down the ladder.

"Do you want the good news, or the bad news?" She spoke to the boy as if she knew him.

"Uh –" He choked out, bemusement crossing his face. "Well, I could use some good news."

"The good news is that aside from the occasional chamomile lotion due to a nasty predicament we won't discuss, I've never used anything in this kit before. So we should have plenty of gauze, medical tape, peroxide – the works."

"Peroxide?" He choked out, and she paused her digging through the box to send a dry look up at him.

"Yes. Peroxide. Let me tell you something, that wound is _not _gonna clean itself." She turned back to the kit. After lining up all the needed supplies, she laid the space blanket from the kit on the ground. The metallic foil of it glittered in the moonlight, and she dumped the supplies onto it.

She pulled the white latex gloves onto her hands and turned back to the boy. He was watching her with wide eyes, still breathing heavily. "Okay. So, here's how this is going to work. I'll ask a question, you'll answer it. I'll tell you to do something, you'll do it. We want this done quickly and efficiently. Got it?"

He blinked at her and nodded, looking dazed. She rubbed her gloved hands together. "Are you allergic to anything? Latex? Adhesive? Neosporin? Witty humor? Glittering personalities?"

His eyes glazed over. "Huh?"

She pursed her lips, nodding. "Okay. One question at a time. Any allergies?" She said as she worked, opening packages of gauze, ripping strips of medical tape, and unpinning the ace wrap.

"Um, eggs." He said, almost instinctually.

"Whoa, seriously?" She paused, looking up. He nodded at her and she blinked. "Eggs. I'd be scrambling to find what else to eat." She snorted. "Do you get it?" she said, unscrewing the peroxide in her hand. "I bet Easter is a yoke of a holiday for you. I bet you're living a shell of a life."

He stared listlessly at her, his face devoid of humor. Her giggles trailed off…

"Oookay," She said awkwardly. "No more cracked puns."

She paused her movements for the first time since they had been standing there. He seemed to jerk from his daze as he looked at her. "What?" He said.

"Take off your shirt." She commanded.

"W-Wha – What?" He sputtered, blinking rapidly and nervously smoothing the hem of his shirt down. "No."

She frowned at him. "Dude, either you take off your shirt or I cut it."

His shirt fluttered to the space blanket, and she handed him the flashlight. "Will you hold this light to your wound for me?"

He did as instructed, and she let out a low whistle as she stared at his wound. "Shit. He really took a chunk, didn't he? Okay," she murmured. "This is gonna hurt."

She pressed a cotton ball to the opening of the peroxide bottle and shook it, soaking the cotton ball generously. She cleaned the area around the wound first, and he flinched at the cool liquid pressing against his skin.

She sent him a scolding look, and he clenched his jaw but held still. "So you saw it?" He grunted as she began to clean the bite.

"I'm sorry?" she said, pressing the peroxide-balls into the deepest part of the cut and soaking up some of the blood. He hissed a breath in through his teeth and tightly clenched the tree with his hand.

He was wheezing again. "The – that thing… when it… attacked me… I mean, you saw it?" He asked breathlessly.

She hesitated in her work, her mind flickering back to those red glowing eyes.

"Uh, you could say that."

"What did it look like to you?" He said so quietly, she almost didn't catch it.

She pressed gauze to the wound and packed it, picking up medical strips and spreading one across it. "It looked like a wolf." She said simply, and he flinched.

"So you thought so, too." He breathed, almost in relief.

She pursed her lips. "Yeah, but I mean – that – it can't be right. Can it? There are no wolves around here." She looked up to him, but he just stared mutely back. Her eyes fell back to the dressing. Silently, she picked up more tape to secure it.

She began to wrap the roller bandage around his torso, and he stiffened. "I can do this." He suddenly said, bristling at their proximity.

"Okay." She said, handing the roll over to him. She watched as he finished. "Listen," she paused… "Whatever your name is. I know you don't want to hear this, but you should really think about –"

"No." He said firmly. "No hospitals. Besides, look! You've taken care of it. I'm brand new. Reborn, even!"

She frowned. "Look, I'm no professional… that's amateur hour right there." She said, waving her finger all around his dressed wound. "You should get it looked at."

"My mom is a nurse." He said simply, and suddenly it all made more sense. Her mouth made a small 'o', and that little tidbit made her thoughts go off in about a dozen different directions.

"She is?" Shelbie dumbly asked.

He nodded, his body going rigid. She sensed that it was a touchy subject, probably because _he _sensed what she was about to ask – but she ignored it and asked anyway.

"So why don't you just … go home? Go home and tell her that you were attacked? I'm sure she'll help you, I mean, she's a nurse… in fact, she might be at the hospital right now!" Shelbie began to feel like this was a one sided conversation.

She studied his face, which was set with opposition.

Understanding dawned in her mind like a bell. "Ohhh," She said slowly, and his eyes flickered up to her.

"What?" He frowned.

"You're not supposed to be out."

He blinked, "W-What – H – " He scoffed. "No! What? I mean, she doesn't kn – mind! She …"

Shelbie fixed him with a knowing, slightly condescending smirk. His mouth was hanging open, having abruptly stopped mid-excuse, and he exhaled sharply.

"Fine. I'm not supposed to be out right now. But she's probably getting off work soon, she's gonna want to – I mean…" He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, fighting some internal battle.

"Look." He started again, planting his feet firmly on the ground and facing Shelbie head on. They had shifted so that he was facing the moon, and she could get a clear look at his facial features. She has to admit, he's a good looking kid. Scrawny, maybe, but cute in that young puppy sort of way. "I'm not supposed to be out here. I snuck out with my friend because we heard about something that happened out here, and we wanted to check it out… Anyway, my mom has no idea, and she can never know that I left, okay? So I just need to get back to the house. Now." He paused, shifting uncomfortably. "Like, right now."

Shelbie watched him for a few moments, sizing him and his story up… She sighed heavily. "Okay." She relented, and he almost collapsed in relief. "I'll help you get home. I mean, I have this map and I'm sure I can find a short cut – what?" She trailed off, because he was staring at her with an unreadable expression on his face.

A few moments of silence passed between them. "What?" She repeated, frowning slightly.

"What's your name again?" He asked.

"Shelbie."

"I'm Scott." He put his hand out. She stared amusedly at his hand, lit up by the moonlight as they stood there in the woods.

Finally, she took his hand and gave him a hearty shake. "It's nice to meet you, Scott."

"The pleasure is mine." He grinned. She noticed that although his handshake was firm, he was slightly out of breath and he was still unnaturally pale.

"Let's get you home." She said, turning to the map. "Now, we're here…."

* * *

Twenty five minutes later, they emerged on a road. Scott was so excited to see the road that he didn't stop to look before darting into it.

A car horn blared in their ears, and the headlights blinded Scott. He threw up his arms as if that would stop the car, which swerved to miss him at the same moment that Shelbie yanked him back off the road.

"Scott!" Shelbie cried, stumbling back with him. "Are you alright?"

He panted, watching as the red tail lights faded into the night. "Yeah," he breathed. "I'm fine."

"Jesus, kid. You're glutton for trouble." She brushed his shoulders off, glancing down at his blood soaked shirt. "How's the wound?"

He looked down, as if he had forgotten it was there. "Oh," He touched a hand to it. "It's good. Yeah, it's a lot better already." He looked up.

"Well, Beacon Hills is that way. If we're gonna get back anytime soon…" She trailed off, leading the way across the road. "This should be the shortcut."

"Hey, thanks." He suddenly said, jogging to catch up with her. He wheezed slightly, and she nodded.

"Don't mention it. I'd feel guilty if I left you out there all night."

"No, really, Shelbie. I mean it. Thanks for helping me." He insisted, his voice warm with appreciation. "Not a lot of people would've done that."

She scoffed, uncomfortable with his gratitude. This kid was too much. "I don't know about that, but yeah, sure. Don't mention it."

He smiled and nodded his head, focusing on the ground as they walked.

They continued on for about ten minutes before emerging at another clearing. Houses were grouped together in a cul-de-sac, and she prayed that none of them had motion sensors since they'd have to cut through a yard to reach the road.

"Familiar?" She asked, choosing the most beaten down house to cut by. They hurried and ducked between the houses as Scott hummed in hesitation.

They stepped onto the sidewalk, finally free of the woods and back in civilization.

"Oh," He said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Yeah! I'm like, five blocks from here."

She smiled at him. "Great. Want me to walk you, or…"

"Nah, you've done enough." He waved, already jogging backwards. He tripped slightly, then decided it was best to face the direction he was jogging. "See you around, Shelbie!"

She sighed. "See you around."

They had exchanged numbers on the way here, so she would be able to check in on him soon.

She walked a few more blocks and stopped in front of a gate. The iron wrought fence was obnoxiously shiny, and she strolled right up to the camera, which made a clicking noise as it angled down to face her. The lens shifted and made a buzzing noise as it focused in.

She let out a jerky wave to the camera. "Hey, dad." She said, grimacing.

* * *

Author's Note: This story will focus on my OC, Shelbie Wayland. I'm confident that she will add her own flair to the Teen Wolf story, and mix well with the other characters. Her family history will be rich and interesting, and hopefully the story line will extend nicely from the main plot like a tree.

I haven't decided who she should be with yet - I know I want it to be a romance, but I'm not sure who. She's older than Scott and his group; she is a senior while they are sophomores ... but that doesn't necessarily mean anything.

That leads me into the big question: Who, from the cast of Teen Wolf, would you guys like to see her with? Derek? Stiles? Scott?! Or, would you like me to take on the challenge that hasn't been really been tried ... Like (Dare I say it...) Peter!? :O ... possibly Isaac? Jackson? (Prob not Jackson - unless you guys are gaga over that idea) I'm already working on the next chapter, there should be some interesting character development happening soon. Soooo just let me know your thoughts!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf or any of its characters, only my own OCs**

* * *

_Desperation is like stealing from the Mafia: you stand a good chance of attracting the wrong attention. _– Douglas Horton

"This," Her father said into his state of the art cellphone, pacing in front of Shelbie. His feet sank into the white plush carpet as he went. "Is _unacceptable_."

Shelbie sat on what she thought would be an insanely comfortable couch. When she first saw it, it looked swollen with stuffing. The black leather screamed _cloud_, but as she shifts on it now, it feels like she'd be better off sitting on the carpet.

A light blue afghan wrapped around her shoulders, and steam from the coffee mug in her hands wafted up to her face. She closed her eyes and breathed in the heady, exotic scent of coffee.

Her father's robe made a dramatic swishing sound as he came to an abrupt stop. "You let our daughter stomp around the wilderness in the middle of the night," He hissed, his eyes blazing with a rage that Shelbie couldn't understand.

"Technically, I was in the treehouse." Shelbie murmured to no one in particular, watching as a maid came skittering into the room with a tray of sugar and cream. Her hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and her outfit was the cliché _French Maid_ uniform. If it wouldn't have been rude, Shelbie would've rolled her eyes at the predictability of her father. He _would _choose that outfit.

She forced a smile at the woman as she quietly set down the tray. "Thank you," She whispered. The woman jumped slightly and her eyes flitted to Shelbie's in surprise.

Before she could respond, Shelbie's father bellowed, "I want you to take some responsibility for once in your life, Michelle!"

Shelbie's eyebrows shot into her hairline and she winced, sinking farther down into the deceptively hard couch and hiding behind her coffee mug. The maid flew out of the room. The quiet sound of a miniscule telephone voice erupted on the phone. Her father held it away from his ear, his face screwed into a mixture of derision and anger.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh. "You know what," He interrupted. "I'll clean up your mess. _Again_. But this has got to stop, Michelle. I'm not just turning the other way anymore." With that, the phone dropped from his cheek and clattered onto the table next to the tray of sugar and cream.

He let out another sigh and collapsed in the chair next to Shelbie. She looked closely at him for the first time in months. The last time she had physically seen her father, her feet were aching from the heels she had been forced to wear by her mother, and she was itching to tear her hair out of its stiff bun. She chose to stay with her mother that day.

Since then, her father had collected a slight tan, a sprinkle of grey hair, and a smattering of frown lines.

A flash of bright blue twinkling eyes shot across her memory. Her father used to be ridiculously happy, but as she looked at him now, his eyes looked like a clouded blue sky. Time had taken its toll on Stephen Wayland IV.

Shelbie smacked her lips, tightening her grip on the coffee mug. "So'd ya guys catch up?"

Her father sent her an unamused look. "Your mother and I have… different ideas on how you should be raised."

Shelbie's eyes narrowed. "I'm doing just fine."

He raised an eyebrow. "Really?" She nodded stubbornly. "Is that why you showed up on my doorstep at three in the morning last night – twigs and leaves stuck in your hair? Shivering? Hungry?"

"That – wasn't her fault," Shelbie started, and her father sat forward.

"The hell it isn't! You are our responsibility," His finger jabbed at the table for emphasis. "Where are you living right now? In a home with no heat?"

"We have a space heater," Shelbie interrupted, but he barreled over her.

"No walls? What'd you have for dinner last night? Leftover pizza from last week?"

"As a matter of fact, yes!"

"And how are you getting to school?"

Shelbie paused. "Mom usually takes me."

"How does she have time for that? Because she has no job."

"Sorry we can't afford our _own chauffeurs._" She growled.

"Why don't you have your own car? She has no money! How about your grades? Are you getting your homework done?"

"Y-Yes!"

"Is that why your grades are slipping?"

"Sometimes it's hard to concentrate – the plastic curtains aren't exactly sound proof –"

"You _have no walls _in your house, Shelbie."

"None of that is her fault!" She insisted. "The contractor _abandoned _us!"

Her father's mouth clamped shut, his eyes burning into hers.

Her eyes were shining with tears now, and her breathing was ragged. "He _left _us. We gave him everything we had, and he _walked away_. What are we supposed to do with that?"

Her father just stared at her.

"How can we change something we never even saw coming?" She demanded.

The silence in that living room was deafening. Her father was staring at her with an unreadable expression, and she had never felt so exposed in her life. A tear slid down her cheek and she scrubbed furiously at it. "I'm sorry to barge in on you. I don't even know why I came. Clearly I'm too much trouble," She stood up from the couch.

"No." Her father finally said, rising from the chair to look her in the eye. She saw a passion there that she never thought she'd see again. It was confusing her. "You're my daughter." Her breath caught in her throat. "I always have time for you."

"But no money?" She said, and though the words were biting, her voice was tired and had lost its conviction.

He didn't even flinch. "I have money – money for _you_. Not for Michelle. She can't be trusted with it."

Shelbie's shoulders tightened in frustration, and she flapped her hands at her sides. "What am I supposed to do with that?" her hands slapped against the side of her thighs.

He paused, looking her dead in the eye again. "I'm working on it."

She didn't know what that meant. Wasn't sure if she wanted to.

"…Okay," she said, too tired to fight with him anymore. "Can I go home now?"

"Sir," An unassuming voice piped up. They both turned around to see an elderly man. He was wearing a sweater vest and slacks, his shoes glistening under the bright morning sun that was streaming through the windows. "The car is ready."

"Impeccable timing as usual, Jeffery." Her father said.

"It's all in the planning." Jeffery bobbed in his spot.

"Thank you."

The man left without a word, and her father turned back to her. They stared at each other for a few moments. "Things are going to be better for you really soon, Shelbie."

She sighed and ran a hand down her face. "I don't need things to be better. I need them to be right."

* * *

The car rolled to a stop outside her and her mother's two story house. From the outside, everything looked really nice. The paint on the siding was fresh, the lawn was well tended, and the garden was cheerful – though drooping in the chilly air.

Shelbie turned to her father. He had changed out of his robe and into his suit. Under his eyes were two bruises, and she knew it was because he had been woken up by her. She was sure she probably looked like she had two shiners herself.

"Thanks for the ride," She said, and he nodded.

"Any time."

Her hand paused on the handle, and she turned her head slightly to the left. Without facing him, she said, "Don't disappear on me." She looked back at the handle. "Not again."

His hand touched her shoulder. "Don't worry. It'll be different now, you'll see."

She wasn't sure if different meant better.

Shelbie slid out of the luxury car, watching as it pulled away from her house. She didn't turn away until it turned the corner and disappeared.

The door was open before she had set foot on the porch.

"Shelbie Nicole Wayland," Her mother's voice cackled. Shelbie's shoulders stiffened, preparing herself for the onslaught she'd get from her mom.

"Hey, mom." Shelbie said timidly.

"Get in this house," Her mom hissed, her eyes narrowed. Shelbie slinked past her and the door slammed shut. Her mom stared at her, hands on hips.

"What the hell, Shelbie?" She finally exclaimed.

"I – I just needed to get away." Shelbie rubbed her hands on her arms, the house already cooler inside than outside.

"You needed to get away," Her mom parroted, her face unimpressed. "_You _needed to get away?"

Shelbie said nothing, her eyes fixed on the ground.

"You don't _get _to run away." She said, stepping forward. "We don't run from our problems, Shelbie. We're not your f –" Shelbie flinched, and her mother clamped her mouth shut. "You don't get to make the same mistakes that he did. I won't let that happen."

"Jesus, mom!" Shelbie snapped. "I fell asleep in a tree house! I didn't _move out_!"

Her mom exploded. "Well guess what, Shelbie! Now you are!" She bellowed, and promptly shocked Shelbie into silence. She staggered back from her mom on unsteady feet.

Her mom was seething, anger seeping from her pores. But then Shelbie looked closer, and saw something else there. She searched their murky blue depths, and found the truth. Desperation. Her mom's eyes were glistening with tears, and Shelbie hated to admit that she didn't understand.

"W-What," her voice failed her, cracking and sounding strangled. She took a breath and tried again. "What do you mean?" For an irrational moment, Shelbie imagined that her mother was throwing her out.

She noticed the crumpled document in her mother's fist for the first time. Her mom slapped it on the dining room table. "Your father has taken custody."

Shelbie swayed on her feet, propping herself against the wall for support. "He can't do that." Shelbie said firmly.

Her mother snorted and snagged a glass from the table. Red liquid sloshed in it, and Shelbie slowly started to process the scene in front of her. There was a nearly empty wine bottle on the table, and she watched as her mother chugged the rest of her glass. She noticed that her mother's blouse was untucked, and her hair was mussed. She noticed that her eyes were glazed with intoxication, and her jaw was slacker than usual.

"He already did." She said, and Shelbie was surprised that it didn't slur. She hiccupped and swiped up the bottle of wine, abandoning the empty glass and swigging straight from it.

"But he can't! He – No!" Shelbie desperately surged forward, her hands tangling in her hair. "I can't leave you! I _need _you!"

Her mom giggled drunkenly. "You don't need me, Shelbie." The words slurred together slightly, her intoxication finally slipping through without anger and desperation to fuel her anymore. "What do you need? These plastic walls? This cold house? This empty –" Hiccup "Life?" She shook her head. "I have nothing left to give." Her mom collapsed in a chair at the table, nearly sliding off.

Shelbie blinked, tears freely streaming down her face. "You don't mean that." She said. She stepped closer again, gripping onto a chair next to her mom so tight that her hands went numb. "You can't mean that."

Her mom shook her head, her blonde hair falling in her face. "I do. I mean," She hiccupped again. "Every word," She slurred. "You're better off without me."

"How can you say that?" Shelbie demanded, "How can you be so _weak_? Why aren't you fighting for me?"

Her mom laid her head against her arm on the table, smacking her lips. "I've already lost, Shelbie. It's done. Funny what money can buy."

With that, her mother passed out. The empty wine bottle rolled out of her hand and crashed to the ground. Shelbie blinked at nothing. She stood there for another minute, blinking and processing.

Her father… Took custody? She has to leave her mom? Her mom will be alone… in this house?

She has to leave her mom?

She has to leave?

Is she moving in with her father?

Is she moving to Beacon Hills?

With numb limbs, Shelbie found a broom and dustpan. She swept up the glass and threw it away, then dragged herself upstairs and closed her bedroom door behind her.

She stood in the dark, unfeeling and shivering. Inexplicable guilt wracked her body, tearing a hole in her heart. Sobs bubbled past her lips.

_You don't need me, Shelbie. What do you need? This empty life? _

She slid to her knees and felt her life shatter around her. Again. Her forehead touched the floor as she cried, losing her breath. She gasped for air, desperately trying to will it _not to be true._

She can't leave. She – what can she do? What can she do?

Is this what a panic attack feels like?

_I have nothing left to give._

Why is this happening? She turned her face to the side, resting her cheek on the ground as she shook with her sobs.

What's happening?

* * *

Author's Note: This is shorter, but the next chapter will include more interaction with our favorite characters!

P.S. Have you decided who you'd like to see Shelbie with yet?


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